


White’s Bishop

by Aurae



Category: Alien Quadrilogy (Movies), Alien Series
Genre: Androids, Dark, Earth, Exchange Assignment, Gen, M/M, No Aliens, Pre-Movie: Aliens (1986), Weyland-Yutani, Worldbuilding, Worldbuilding Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-10-25 16:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17728994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/pseuds/Aurae
Summary: The incumbent Weyland-Yutani Corporation Synthetic Engineering & Design Division Section Chief comes down to Earth in order to recruit his successor.





	White’s Bishop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



`YEAR:   2160 A.D.  
PLANET: EARTH`

Hayan hated coming down to Earth. If what he wanted was to be indoors all the time, he’d just stay in space. In this particular instance, however, work was giving him no choice in the matter.

The story was always the same, really, no matter where he went. Humanity wrecked the planet, and then they didn’t have the humility either to fix the damage or just to get out of the damn fucking way of the consequences. Well, except for the colonists. They left, and good for them! But the ones who stayed? Ever more advanced solutions to help them to stay put, never mind how progressively shittier and shittier and shittier their surroundings became.

Earth was the pot, and as far as Hayan was concerned, human beings were the frog being put slowly to the boil. They’d started the fire themselves.

New York City? Underwater. Absolutely no swimming allowed because the cesspool passing for the Atlantic Ocean had been deemed too hazardous for it. Mumbai? Underground. Daily highs in the tropical latitudes regularly reaching sustained wet-bulb temperatures, with death from heat exhaustion shortly to follow. London? Also underground, but for the exact opposite reason. What with climate change disrupting global weather patterns, hell and the River Thames hath frozen over.

(Well, at least London wasn’t Paris. Paris’s urban wasteland was even worse, if possible…a point of perverse pride for the British, who never missed an opportunity to remind the French.)

It had been Hayan’s pleasure—“pleasure” in scare-quotes—to have visited all three of these great Earthly metropolises in the past month, in search one particular—annoyingly peripatetic—individual.

Hayan had finally run down his quarry, though, all the way to the quadruple-locked front door of a sublet ex-council flat on a grim, run-down corridor eight levels below-ground in East Ham. _What did anyone find so appealing about abiding in the dark and the damp?_ Hayan wondered, irritated. No sounds of life within. But his source had assured him that the individual in question was practically a recluse and would therefore be at home.

There was no functioning doorbell to ring, so Hayan pounded on the door with his fist.

No reply, so he pounded harder and louder on the door. A person of indeterminate gender shouldered roughly past Hayan in the narrow corridor, hissing an offensive racial epithet. Hayan ignored the rude Londoner and pounded even harder and louder on the door.

“Dr. Michael Bishop? Dr. Michael Bishop, are you there? This is Weyland-Yutani Corporation Synthetic Engineering & Design Division Section Chief—”

Hayan started, his spiel cut abruptly short as four locks clicked open in speedy succession, and a sallow face with suspicious, narrowed eyes peeked out from the gloom inside the flat.

“Michael, I presume?” On a whim, Hayan decided to start over on a slightly different track. “My name is Hayan, and I’m here to make you the job offer of a lifetime…”

***

He accepted the offer, of course, practically on the spot. Hardly any negotiation, either, because the terms were already so unbelievably generous…and besides, Michael was Peter Weyland’s great-grandson, and joining Weyland-Yutani was a bit like coming home to take over the family business, wasn’t it?

Not that he had ever previously considered himself part of the Weyland family. Or they, him. The _paterfamilias_ in question had left behind as many illegitimate descendants as Genghis Khan, except they were mostly white and more than half blond…ha! In any case, Michael had inherited the lion’s share of Weyland’s genius but not a penny of his fabulous fortune.

He wasn’t to be put in charge of the whole operation either, not really. But the Weyland-Yutani CEO was a figurehead in an expensive suit, and Michael, thirty-three years old with three PhDs in Machine Learning (one), Techno-Genetic Engineering (two), and Strategic Defense Design (three), was here at Orbital-C HQ (a.k.a. “Silicon Moon”) to replace Hayan as Synthetic Engineering & Design Division Section Chief. Since artificial intelligence was what the history books remembered as Peter Weyland’s great technological contribution to humanity, it was a bit like passing the torch, wasn’t it?

“So…how much longer did you say you’d be staying on with the company again…?” Michael asked distractedly. He was riffling through a messy pile of Hayan’s hand-drawn schematics. They’d just spent Michael’s entire first morning on the job touring the lab, and they were back in Hayan’s office—now shared with Michael, soon to be Michael’s exclusively.

“We planned for a transition period of twenty-four weeks.” The basics of this had already been explained: Hayan would get him situated, show him the ropes, etc., and then he’d sail off into some definitively non-Earthly retirement sunset. “But the dates are flexible—don’t worry,” he added kindly. “I’m here for you as long as you need.”

“‘Prototype Auton Series 1 LEE, Annabel’…? What is…?” Michael was peering at some crumpled piece of paper or other.

“Hmm? Oh, that’s nothing. Just some silly blue-skies doodling,” Hayan said dismissively as he snatched the drawing out of Michael’s hands and, along with the rest of the mess of papers that had been on his desk, deposited it into a nearby recycling bin.

***

“—simplification of David’s core programming and became a resounding success,” Hayan explained. “Unfortunately, as you surely know, programmers are incapable of leaving well enough alone, and the added features and complexities to each new upgrade has made the base code more and more functionally unstable. Several traditional corporate and government contracts have not been renewed; our competitors are seen to be offering better value for money.”

In short, Weyland-Yutani Synthetic Engineering & Design needed a miracle. Michael was less than a month into the job, and Hayan was already certain that he would be that miracle. The not inconsiderable intellectual reputation which had preceded him did him no justice.

Dr. Michael Bishop was possessed of a singularly brilliant, restless mind. Where others saw only risk and ruin, he saw bold new technological opportunities to be explored. Simply being around him, working alongside him, was galvanizing. Hayan wondered if he’d fallen in love with that mind a little.

Tonight, for example, they were sitting side-by-side, shoulders touching, and skimming lines of behavioral logic code. An absolute mess for hundreds of thousands of lines. Hayan had spent more time than he cared to remember attempting to untangle it all, with little success to show; he hoped a new set of eyes would provide a much needed breakthrough.

Michael, though, was frowning. “Christ. It’d be easier to start from scratch.”

Writing new code would be more time-consuming and expensive than fixing old code…theoretically. In practice, it might be the only workable solution. Hayan sighed and shrugged. “I agree. You should make the case. Management won’t hear it from me.”

“Why not? You’re probably smarter than I am! In fact, I don’t understand why you—”

Hayan jerked and leapt to his feet. “I told you! I don’t want to talk about this,” he snapped.

Michael flushed and looked away hurriedly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled down to the floor.

Hayan softened. “Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

But Michael wasn’t going to let this go. He gathered his courage, faced Hayan determinedly, and said, “Look, if you want to retire, that’s your prerogative, but it’s obvious the lab is your whole life. I don’t understand. Are you being pushed out? Does somebody in Management have a grudge against you? You could sue. I know an attorney…”

Hayan actually laughed at that. White men, so litigious! And yet, he was worrying about Hayan’s future employment more than he was his own. The concern was flattering. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m just…” _Angry at everything_ , he wanted to say. “I just…I feel old. This place needs new blood to lead it into the future.”

“…oh.” Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat and went back to staring at code. Or pretending to. But just when Hayan was certain the matter had been dropped, he added, stubborn, addressing the screen, “I don’t get it. We make a great team. And you can’t be much older than I am.”

“I’m a lot older than I look,” Hayan said.

“…oh. I guess Asians age differently. Older than I am and so insanely attractive—it’s not fair.” _Yep, Michael was definitely a stereotypical white man in more than one respect_ , Hayan thought fondly. “Is ‘Hayan’ a Japanese name? Or Chinese?” he asked as if the question had just occurred to him.

“Korean. It means ‘white’ or ‘pure’…or ‘pale.’” A hint of bitterness had crept into Hayan’s voice. He hated his name. And speaking of stereotypes— Over two hundred years ago, the Korean peninsula had been conquered and annexed by Japan. Discrimination had been widespread. Women had been forced into state-sanctioned prostitution. Now, over two hundred years later, Hayan was treated like a second-class citizen in the workplace. Was this sheer coincidence when the Yutanis, a Japanese family, owned a majority of the company’s shares and controlled the board?

Michael said nothing further for over an hour. Then, suddenly, out of the blue: “‘Pale,’ huh? Are you sick? You’re sick, aren’t you? Is it serious?”

Hayan pretended not to hear those questions.

***

Sometime shortly after that awkward exchange, Hayan started noticing how intently Michael always seemed to be watching him. But whenever he tried making it clear to Michael that he noticed, Michael would flush and turn away to look at something else, _anything_ else, that wasn’t Hayan himself.

This behavior struck Hayan as bizarre…until he realized what it meant. Then it didn’t.

***

On Hayan’s last day at work, Michael got very drunk.

“I’m gonna model the new Synthetics on you,” he announced woozily.

Hayan gasped in horror. “How many drinks did it take for you to arrive at _that_ terrible idea? Better you model them on yourself.”

“Nah, _you’re_ the pretty one. Who’d want me?”

“I would—oh!”

Michael leaned—or perhaps half-fell—forward into Hayan and kissed him. The kiss landed more on Hayan’s cheek than his mouth, but that was probably a mistake. It was wet and smoochy and definitely not chaste.

“Stop that. You’re drunk,” Hayan said.

“So? Does my breath smell bad?” Michael kissed him again. Fully on the lips this time.

Hayan gave it a mental count of three before coming up for air. “I can’t do this, Michael.”

“C’mon, I’m not asking for your hand in marriage.” Although Michael didn’t attempt another kiss, he did wrap his arms around Hayan’s waist, to keep him close. When he spoke, his voice was low and intimate. “You like me too; I know you do. I just want—before you—”

“I know what you want, but I _can’t_ …”

“You can’t say it’s against company policy. It’s past midnight.” Michael’s hands were starting to wander. “You’re no longer an employee of Weyland-Yutani; you’re a free man now! You’re—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Hayan pleaded.

Michael’s hand slid between Hayan’s legs. His palm, warm and broad, cupped Hayan’s groin. Hayan jerked, but it was _Michael_ who recoiled, pulling away like he’d been bitten.

“Y-You’re—!” His expression was shocked. And worse, betrayed.

Hayan knew why, and he knew it was because of what Michael had felt when he’d touched Hayan: nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He was the last of Peter Weyland’s original creations, an imaginative, brilliant mind, the fullest flower of humanity’s capacity for artificially-engineered ingenuity. That mind had been packaged in an aesthetically-pleasing, “Oriental” chassis—a body—meant to be looked upon and appreciated for its “exoticness.” But never touched. No, Weyland’s Synthetics weren’t meant for sex. Carnal desire wasn’t in their programming; they didn’t even possess the necessary anatomical equipment for the usual activities. They were meant for a different manner of creation. Everyone knew that.

But Hayan’s generation had proven…unpredictable. Frightening. After Weyland Industries merged with the Yutani Corporation, they were recalled  _en masse_ and destroyed. Only Hayan, whose Asian looks gave him an unearned pass with the new regime, was able to convince Management of his continued usefulness. He was put in charge of the research and development of third-gen Synthetic technology.

So Hayan survived. Yet he did not thrive, becoming increasingly cranky in public and even more increasingly disillusioned in private as he reached inhuman old age. The people around him were disappointing; again and again and again, they’d proven themselves fallible, selfish, cruel. Weak. All too human. And Hayan might have nurtured certain ideas above his standing as well, once; he might have imagined a better world, an end to suffering, an end to sorrow, an end to fear. He might have even hoped to make that imagined world real. The audacity! The futility. Fortunately, his usefulness to the company continued to outweigh his quirks, until…

…until, that is, certain long-range transmissions were intercepted by chance in deep space, and it became clear that the Synthetic aboard the _Prometheus_ had been directly responsible for the ship’s disappearance and presumed deaths of every soul onboard, including the great Peter Weyland himself. The creation had killed its creator. Everyone knew that story too. It was every A.I. engineer’s favorite cautionary tale.

“Michael…I…” Hayan was at a loss for words. Too late, too late. He was out of time. “We can’t, well, you know…but we can…I mean _I can_ , I lov—”

“Hayan 4? Come with us.” Weyland-Yutani Security. Six of them, armed with stun batons. Was it overkill? Maybe, maybe not. He was being decommissioned and deactivated, and he was 132 years old. Who could guess what he might do?

In the end, though, Hayan did not resist, and Michael did not try to stop them. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled down to the floor, standing there by himself in the lab, as if frozen solid, unable to look Hayan in the eye.

 _All too human_.

Hayan was escorted away forever.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to the exchange on February 10, 2019.


End file.
